


Vacancies

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Dubious Consent, Future Dean Winchester, Humor, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Games, Nightmares, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, invisible and silent to the actors in the drama that was his subconscious, screamed for his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**comment_fic**](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/). This turned out so freakin well, you have almost no idea how happy I am right now.

Lucifer's hand was dragging unerringly slow up his chest, a long pull over old bruises and half healed cuts. Dean, barely conscious, still had enough wherewithal to sneer and spit at the devil, an explosion that was mostly red mist.

Nick just smiled low and humorlessly.

And began carving into Dean again.

Sam, invisible and silent to the actors in the drama that was his subconscious, screamed for his brother.

The Lucifer who appeared beside him was clean, no trace of a bloody torture in his recent past, but that same low-level, omnipresent smile was exactly the same.

"This will happen, you know. Soon," he was gazing out over the scene as Sam stiffened beside him.

"You-"

"You wont be able to stop me, and my little brother wont be fast enough to catch me. I'll have Dean," there was something sharp and possessive in the devil's eyes as he looked out on the scene, his future self torturing Micheal's vessel, "I'll ruin him."

Dean says something, growled out low and venomous between huge gasps of air and the Lucifer at his side tips his head back and laughs.

He pets Dean's hair for a moment, before pulling his head back, one hand threateningly on his throat. The devil murmurs something into his ear before he licks his neck and suddenly, savagely biting down at his pulse point.

Dean shouts, more in surprise before it closes sharply to pain.

Sam stiffens where he watches, and his own personal devil ignores him for the way future Dean bites his lip and shudders under nails dragging down his chest, catching on cuts and tearing open the wounds more.

Sam goes ballistic when Lucifer dips his hands into Dean's jeans and- _rips_ , and suddenly Dean's exposed to the open air, and Sam cant even bring himself to look away because the horror of it is too much. He throws himself forward against the invisible barrier that separates him from the scene before him with all his strength.

Dean hisses when Lucifer wraps a hand around him and squeezes, hard and fast before he loosens his grip, and Dean thrashes, curses spewing from his lips with the blood.

Sam screams, low and tortured before turning on Lucifer, stupidly, _blindly_ \- jerking him forward by the collar of his ridiculous jean jacket.

He's inches from Nick's peeling face when he growls, already knowing, already expecting the answer, "What- How- What do you want? How do I stop this?"

And then Lucifer truly smiles before he opens his mouth- "You can't."

And the shock from that is so strong that Sam doesn't move, can feel his heart pause, skip a beat and the world seems to not exist for a second but for Dean's tortured shouts underneath it all.

After his heart remembers how to beat and his lungs remember the need for air he stutters out, "W-w-what?" although it's more of a whimper.

Lucifer smiles in self-satisfaction again, "You. Can't. Just as you _will_ say yes in Detroit, I _will_ have Dean in Vancouver."

"You-.. but..."

Lucifer pats his cheek as Dean gives one last torturous, pleasured shout before falling to whimpers and Sam is still so confused and shocked that he doesn't back away, doesn't smack the hand aside.

"Your brother will take the place you left vacant when you killed Alistair. And he will be mine."


	2. Chapter 2

  
Rough hands on his shoulders are enemy until he recognizes and connects them with the rough voice calling for him, “Sam! Dammit, Sam! _Sammy_!”

He blinks himself back awake to Dean staring down at him with angry concern written all over his face, “Dude, you were having a nightmare.”

“I…” but Sam stops. He doesn’t want to say the words, doesn’t want to tell his brother what sick twisted things the devil may or may not do to him sometime in the next six months. Doesn’t want to even _think_ about it. But it’s there in his head, a sickening chunk of poisoning lead dragging at him already.

“I had a nightmare,” Sam finishes softly.

And Dean frowns. Sam knows why, knows that he usually tells his brother, if not all of it, at least _most_ of what Lucifer says and makes him kill his way through. But there’s no way he’s telling Dean about this dream. _No way_.

“Sam-” but Dean stops and just stares at him.

 _No way_.

~*~

Lucifer comes back the next night, and brings his new torture with him.

He rapes Dean again, and Sam is forced to watch. The devil sucks his brother off this time, before cutting away the flesh on his thigh.

Sam pukes and the dream ends when Dean- _his Dean, real Dean_ \- shakes him awake.

Sam says nothing.

~*~

Lucifer returns the following night.

This time, he jacks Dean off. Sam tries not to watch, but his brother’s agonized screams are almost worse than the sight. Lucifer finishes the session by taking Dean’s left pinky and carving out the tendons in the backs of his knees.

Sam doesn’t puke this time, but it’s only because he can’t see enough through his helpless tears.

Dean wakes him again.

Sam still says nothing.

~*~

On the fifteenth night, Lucifer fucks Dean.

Dean tries not to make a sound, but Sam can see he’s wearing thin. Lucifer drags a silver knife down his back in an approximation of claws before ramming the blade through his right hand and leaving it there.

Sam wakes to Dean still, trying not to notice the worry hidden under his brother’s gruff complaints.

Sam wont say anything.

~*~

On the sixtieth night, Sam finally looses the week long battle against sleep and sinks into another of Lucifer’s tortures.

Lucifer is fucking himself on Dean’s cock, and only Dean’s continues stubbornness prevents his brother from calling out. But Sam sees anyway, every time that Lucifer lifts up, his brother’s hips jerk up too. Sam watches as Lucifer comes over his brother’s chest, smearing the cum into cuts before picking up a blade and cutting into the same chest. He doesn’t even bother to lift himself free.

Sam wakes to Dean’s slap. Dean doesn’t say anything but the grief in his eyes is almost unbearable.

Sam refuses to speak.

~*~

On the sixty-fifth night, Lucifer carves Dean up with an exact-o knife. Sam watches as his brother’s cock swells with every slice.

Sam wakes to his own quiet tears.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the day.

~*~

On the sixty-seventh night, Lucifer shoves his cock down Dean’s throat. Dean, from the devil’s noises, apparently gives excellent head. When Dean bites down after Lucifer comes, all the devil does is smirk and twist a hand sharply in Dean’s hair until the hunter’s eyes close in ecstasy.

Sam wants to die.


	3. Chapter 3

  
The next morning, he says nothing. He showers, gets dressed in the suit he needs for their FBI cover and waits in the car.

Dean comes out of the motel room and stops, staring at Sam in the Impala and Sam ignores it, ignores him in a way that he cant do at night. Dean crosses to the driver’s side and gets in, ignoring the radio the way Sam is ignoring him.

They drive to the victim’s house in silence and Sam continues the trend as Dean interview’s the guy’s wife.

“Rugaru,” Dean says as he jogs down the house steps half an hour later.

Sam only nods.

For some reason, this infuriates Dean and he slams the car door without ever getting in.

Sam only blinks up at him, one hand on the passenger handle.

“Ok, what the hell is wrong with you? I get that the devil is your new bestest friend at night. But seriously, this is wearing a little goddamned thin, Sam.”

Sam wants Dean to understand that he’s not doing this for himself. He _really_ wants his brother to understand, because they were almost as close as they had been before Dean went to Hell before Lucifer started showing up and playing six types of Psycho in Sam’s psyche.

 _No way_.

Sam gets in the Impala, ignoring, once again, his brother and the heavy disbelieving silence that settles on top of the car’s roof where his brother still has his arms resting. Dean shifts for a minute longer before opening the door and slamming it angrily as he gets in. They peel out from the long driveway in a fit of gravel.

They’re driving back to the police station now, to interview a local sheriff who had spotted what might be the thing’s lair. They’re on the road not twenty minutes before Dean speaks, asking what he never thought his brother would have to ask him.

“…Did you say yes, or something?” Dean is gruff, shoulders tense, like he really expects the answer to be ‘yes’ and that he might have to kill Sam, right then and there.

And Sam is so shocked by the question, by the _need_ for the question, that he forgets that he was ignoring Dean, “What?! No. Dean, no! I didn’t say yes!”

He looks away from the relief flowing across his brother’s shoulders, “I’m not going to ever say yes.”

And he doesn’t tell Dean that the reason is entirely selfish now, that he doesn’t want to be looking out from behind the devil’s power as Lucifer tortures his brother. Second person was horrible, traumatic, scarring. First person and he would kill himself.

The silence is uncomfortably guilty from Dean for the next five minutes-

-before Sam says something he’s been denying for two months, something he swore he’d never say aloud.

“Lucifer, he…”

Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him now, only peripherally keeping track of the long, straight highway in front of them.

“He said that you’d take Alistair’s place…. That you’d be his and take the vacancy I’d created when I killed Alistair.”

Dean snorted, even though Sam knew his brother believed his every word, “Yeah-fuckin-right. I’m never doing _anything_ for that bastard. I guess he’s just S.O.L. What made you think that I’d ever do that?”

Dean was inviting Sam to share in the joke and if Sam had spent the last sixty-seven nights dreaming anything else, he might’ve turned with a smirk and replied with something like ‘slow dancing with aliens’.

But something once broken was forever fragile. And he had sixty-seven reasons to believe that his brother might crack.

When Sam looks back on that moment, he can only figure that the universe hates him more than anybody else, even Dean. He also thinks that he should have never said anything from the start.

Because it’s just his luck that Castiel shows up just as the sentence slips from his mouth.

“Lucifer raped you, Dean.”


	4. Chapter 4

  
It’s probably a good thing, Sam thinks, that Dean’s reaction to ‘Un-fucking-believable’ news is the same predictable actions every time.

Motel room or Bobby’s- eyebrow raise, half laugh, and then denial.

Middle of a job (with civilians)- brush aside or deflection, and then denial.

Middle of a job (no civilians)- hard look, check weapons, and then denial.

Middle of a Hunt (with civilians)- get the civilians to safety, kill the Sonova Bitch, and then denial.

Middle of a Hunt (no civilians)- get Sam to safety, kill the Sonova Bitch, and then denial.

In the Impala- slam on the fucking breaks and ask Sam what the fuck he was thinking.

So, it comes as no surprise that as Sam’s watching the Impala, and suddenly from the outside, speed down the long gravel ‘highway’ that gravel is going everywhere as his brother slams on the breaks _hard_.

Castiel’s hand on his shoulder is gripping just this side of pain, and the angel is looking at him as if he could smite something.

Sam (wisely, he thinks) keeps his mouth shut and waits for him to talk.

“What did you say?”

“I-..” and Sam _so_ wishes he had listened to his instincts and kept his damned mouth shut, “I said Lucifer raped Dean.”

“When?” Castiel’s eyes are that vibrant blue, and a little more than slightly unnerving from inches away. Sam hears the under current of ‘ _and when did_ you _see this, Sam? Why didn’t you call for me/ when have you been playing with the devil_?’

“I-…” Sam really doesn’t want to say, but he’s already said enough, if he doesn’t say more, they’ll just end up in a worse spot than they already are, “Every night. For the last…”

Castiel’s eyes darken at each word Sam speaks, so he amends the order of his sentences quickly before the angel goes and does something incredibly stupid and/or reckless.

“…-in my dreams. For a while.” He’s so not explaining further.

Dean comes running up, eyes hard, confused a little concerned and with not a little bit of fear, “Sam, wha-”

But Castiel speaks over him with that same intensity, “How long, Sam?”

He looks away. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation, but Castiel grabs his elbow in a vice grip that draws a wince from him and tugs him very much into ‘personal space’, “ _How. Long_?”

Sam mumbles, “Sixty-seven nights.”

“Dammit, Sam! Why didn’t you say something?” and the guilt is creeping in under Dean’s fear and confusion. Sam wants to laugh, because only _his_ brother would feel guilty that Sam’s sleep was disturbed by him getting raped. Talk about self-sacrificing.

“It’s not like you could’ve done anything,” Sam still wont look at them. Shit, he never should’ve said anything, “They’re just dreams.”

And, yeah, he can feel the look his brother is giving him at that. The psychic kid saying ‘just dreams’ is a laugh, one that he doesn’t feel like indulging in. It would figure that the angel would ask the next question he doesn’t want to answer.

“What did Lucifer say?”

Sam nearly sags in his grip at that, but holds himself up with a shuddering sigh and a face he hopes is more determined and angry than hopeless, “Nothing.”

“Sam.” And he knows, knows that they’re not hiding secrets from each other anymore. Knows that everything is supposed to be out in the open, but- no, you know what? Dean can take his ‘sharing’ and shove it.

“No.”

Castiel’s grip tightens til Sam can feel his bones grinding.

“Sam, what did he say?”

“Nothing, he didn’t say anything.”

Dean’s making that face, the one that says he knows that Sam is lying through his teeth and that he’s pissed about it, and that _dammit_ \- why doesn’t his brother trust him?

But Sam refuses to budge.

He looks Castiel in the eye, “Lucifer didn’t say one word,” and makes sure to think, ‘ _Fuck you, you self-righteous son of a bitch. I’m not saying anything_ ’ just in case Castiel wants to try going that way.

And Sam’s not sure if the stoic scowl on the angel’s face is from his words or thoughts, but the suddenly relief of pressure on his elbow sends tingles down his forearm the same second Castiel growls, “fine” and vanishes.

Dean looks at him after that and, in a completely out of character moment, shakes his head and walks back to the Impala without saying a word.

The drive to the station house is long and the rest of the case is buried under an uncomfortable silence.


	5. Chapter 5

They see Castiel two days later.

They roll into a new town and a new motel and seconds after they’ve dropped their bags, Dean’s cell rings and then there’s an angel in the bathroom.

An angel who apparently feels content to ignore Sam.

He and Dean have their little pow-wow in the bathroom, leaving Sam to catalog all the texts they’ll need for this job.

It takes him a little longer because he’s trying ‘not sleeping’ again. He figures he might be able to go another three or four nights before it seriously affects his ability to hunt, and he’ll be forced to sleep again, or let his brother go without back up. Neither thought is appealing, but faced with Dean’s possible future torture or his more immediate death, Sam knows his choice.

Dean comes out of the bathroom without the angel and Sam doesn’t ask.

~*~

Castiel’s been gone a week.

Dean’s tense and Sam sleeps fitfully for the first five days.

On the sixth night, he doesn’t dream.

He wakes fully rested, and Dean eyes him oddly when he wakes, but Sam is so relieved, he couldn’t care less. He showers with a pleasant hum about him and actually smiles around his toothbrush.

The job goes the smoothest Sam’s felt in months and they finally pin down and kill the wendigo. They stumble back into the motel room at quarter to eleven, covered in ganked monster guts and other bodily fluids and Sam’s so happy that he doesn’t care that Dean claims the shower first.

When he falls into the motel’s shitty, purple and blue themed bed, he doesn’t even wait to see Dean crawl into his before he’s out.

~*~

That night the dreams come back.

Sam’s standing in a warehouse, Dean in front of him, the Dean he’s come to associate with Lucifer. Nothing more than Lucifer’s pet.

Dean, Lucifer’s pet, who’s carving into a man with a sick grin on his face and emotionless eyes.

Lucifer, the Lucifer he’s come to associate with his brother’s rape and torture, comes striding in, laughing. He dances a hand across Dean’s shoulders and his brother arches into the touch, his knife stuttering briefly to the victim’s screams.

Sam wishes… Oh, he just **wishes**. Wishes anything, _anything_ other than this.

“I don’t have to show this you know,” and suddenly Lucifer’s just _there_ , appearing from nowhere as he does every night, sometimes just to chat, sometimes to ask him to reconsider his answer.

Other times he just sits and watches. Watches Sam, watches himself, watches Dean.

“I could show you something else. If I wanted,” Lucifer shrugs, as if it doesn’t make a difference to him.

Sam doesn’t have the energy to turn and glare at him, but the feeling is there. He rests his forehead on the invisible barrier that keeps him away from the torture he’s forced to watch.

“I could…” and the devil is suddenly closer, “not. Take Dean.”

Sam’s head snaps up, even though he knows it’s a trap. At this point he’d do almost _anything_ to keep Dean from becoming what he’s been watching his brother become for the past few months.

“-Tonight, anyway,” and the devil has that same, indulgent look, as if he doesn’t care and has all the time in the world to decide if he wants to.

“W-,” it’s odd having a dry, parched mouth here, but Sam’s given up on any of this making sense, “What do you want?”

“Me?” and Lucifer has the audacity to look innocent, “Oh, nothing much.”

“I wont say yes,” that’s the one thing Sam’s consistent on, the one place he wont go.

“That’s fine,” but the predatory glint in his eyes adds _’for tonight_ ’.

“Then what?”

Lucifer grins.

~*~

Sam wakes up crying. He’s not even aware at first, until he realizes it’s still dark and the clock’s bright proclamation of 3:47AM is blurry.

He gets into the shower without waking Dean and stays there until his brother crawls out of bed five hours later.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam tries not sleeping for a week, again. Like he did times before. The day he finally succumbs again, he’s watching Dean get carved up in one of the more vicious memories he’d endured at the beginning. Lucifer- the one he can talk to- doesn’t appear that night.

Sam doesn’t sleep for another week. When he looses the battle again, he’s watching the first day Dean started to like getting cut up. Lucifer still doesn’t show.

Sam stops avoiding sleep.

~*~

Sam knows Dean is worried. He rarely wakes up screaming anymore, but he knows that he’s not looking his best. He still does the job, and Dean’s either taken to being in denial about the whole thing, or carefully not discussing it, just like he’d done with Ruby.

It hurts Sam to think they’re back at that point, but there’s no way he’s telling Dean about this. The last time he said anything, it was a huge mistake.

~*~

Sam’s on a bed, trying to fight off the delirium of too much blood loss and a concussion a few weeks later. His brother is stitching him up best he can, calling for Cas every few seconds in a loud voice that makes Sam grateful for the cabin they’re in; a motel would’ve had a manager on them a while ago.

He doesn’t want a manager to have to deal with this.

It’s getting harder to keep his eyes open, and Dean’s voice is getting more and more frantic. Sam wonders rather lazily if he’ll still see Lucifer when he’s dead. He hopes not. He probably wont. That’s a nice thought, not having to see Lucifer. Not having to feel-

He’s getting smacked across the face harshly, Dean screaming at him- ‘ _you keep your fucking eyes open, Sammy!_ ’- and that would be nicely poetic, he thinks; Dean had his eyes open when he died, too.

He thinks he can hear a rustle of wings, and then he _knows_ he can hear Castiel’s voice, harsh and sharp. Dean’s pleading, and Sam wants nothing better than to tell his brother that this is a _good_ thing, that Lucifer can’t follow him into death. That he wont have to watch Dean become that _thing_ that mewls whenever Lucifer comes into a room, with blank eyes and skilled hands. That he wont have to hear it all. That he wont have to _choose_ again. That he wont have to _feel_ hands holding him down again, bruising him again.

Sam wants nothing more than to die.

But Castiel’s voice is strong in his ear, Dean finally fallen silent. The angel’s voice is rumbling deeply in a language Sam doesn’t recognize and the pain starts to re-appear again.

 _No, no, no,_ Sam wants the blissful numbness again, but Castiel’s still speaking in that guttural tongue. Still pulling him back.

Pulling him back?

Sam thinks on that.

Pulling him back!

No!

Sam starts to fight.

No, if he dies, Lucifer can’t have him. If he dies, he wont have to see Dean become something he’s not, wont have to wonder where Castiel is, why he doesn’t save his brother, wont have to trade himself for another night of torture that’s not directed at Dean.

If he dies, he wont have to feel himself wanting to say ‘yes’.

Castiel’s voice stumbles for a second, hesitating before Dean’s voice is back, sharp, worried and demanding. Castiel starts again.

Sam’s so tired, he just wants it all to be over. But apparently that’s too much to ask.

Exhausted, resigned and dejected, Sam gives in and lets himself be healed.

~*~

“…are you saying, Cas?”

“Only that, whatever Lucifer is doing, it’s working. Sam didn’t want to be saved.”

Sam had fervently hoped that Castiel’s appearance had been his imagination. Apparently that was too much to ask for.

“’Didn’t want to be saved’? Are you telling me Sammy _wanted_ to die?”

A sigh, “I believe he still does.”

“Oh, well, fuck that!”

“I don’t believe Samuel would share your opinion on the matter. He…”

There’s a pause before Dean starts the conversation again, rather hesitantly, “What is it, Cas?”

“Sam believes… that…. He believes that he will say yes. That it’s inevitable.”

“That’s-!” there’s a loud crashing sound.

“I don't believe that destroying the room will provide a solution to the situation.”

“Damnit!”

There’s another, longer pause.

“Cas, can you help him?”

A shorter pause.

“No. To ward his dreams… only another archangel could ward him from Lucifer. As I am now…”

The silence again.

Another sigh, “An archangel, huh? You don’t happen to have one of them lying around, do you?”

“Dean, even approaching an archangel right now would be near, if not assuredly, suicidal.”

“Damnit, Cas. We’re all fresh out of options here! So, unless you’ve got another idea…”

The silence for a beat.

“I will see about contacting Saraphiel. She may be more… lenient towards our case.”

A sigh again, “Thank you, Cas. Really, thanks.”

“I know,” Castiel whispered, “I know.”

~*~

Sam, even though he’s expecting it, doesn’t expect to wake up.

But he does, in the same cabin he blacked out in. His side is on fire, his mouth and throat feel like sandpaper and his eyes are heavy enough to be made of iron, but he wakes up.

Dean’s dejected stare makes him wish he hadn’t.


	7. Chapter 7

  
Cas has been gone two weeks.

Dean hasn’t taken another job in that time, and Sam’s getting bored sitting in the same cabin. He tries getting Dean interested in hunting something, _anything_ , but Dean ignores him. His brother wont let him out of his sight anymore, and Sam’s getting tired of all the delivered pizza.

But Dean isn’t budging on his strange line. Sam doesn’t know what the line is- hell, he doesn’t even know what the line is _for_ , but Dean isn’t budging.

And every night it gets harder to willingly fall asleep.

~*~

“Good evening, Sam.”

~*~

Sam wishes to God he were dead.

He’s gotten used to going to sleep after his brother and waking up hours before him, but even the four or five hours he spends washing every morning don't come close to making him feel clean anymore.

Sam wishes Castiel would come back, if only so his brother would be distracted. Maybe then, they could get back to hunting.

~*~

“Nice to see you again, Sam.”

~*~

Castiel doesn’t come back for another week an a half.

Sam thinks the worry is killing Dean, but they’re still ‘not talking’ so he doesn’t say anything. Mostly, he spends his waking hours on the computer, researching and trying to fill his hours with something that makes sleeping worth it.

Most of the time, he ends up watching Dean.

Sam thinks the worry might be killing him.

~*~

“How’ve you been, Sam?”

~*~

Sam didn’t think things could get any worse, but one day- night- whatever, he can’t seem to wake up.

The devil’s done with him, leaves him broken on the warehouse floor, just like ever other night. And Sam lays there, aching, cold and bruised, waiting to wake up. Waiting to wake up so he can shower this filth off, can forget, for a few blissful hours. Waiting to begin waiting again.

But he doesn’t wake up.

~*~

“Sam! Wake up! _Sammy_!”

~*~

He doesn’t worry, at first.

After all, part of the game is to torment him with his regular life, his normal, peaceful life with his brother who’s still sane and safe, and saving people so they can have blissfully ignorant lives. What’s the fun in torment if he doesn’t have that constant reminder of what he cant have?

But the devil comes back, a few hours later, still naked, still hard.

Sam’s pushed into the rough concrete floor again, bruised and broken again.

~*~

“Dammit, Sammy! _Please_!”

~*~

The third time, he might have begun to worry.

But it hasn’t been that long, only a few hours, so maybe Lucifer just wants to get an extra long session in. It’s not like he hasn’t gone on for hours before, right?

Sam’s knees are starting to ache.

He wants to die.

~*~

“I…I cant- _don't do this to me_. Sammy, please… I can’t loose you, too.”

~*~

The devil’s hands on his throat are bruising, but never quite enough to cut off his air, only enough to make him too weak to protest.

He never does.

Even _this_ is better than watching what Dean will become.

Besides, he deserves this.

He still wants to die.

~*~

“Cas! _Castiel_! PLEASE! I-..I can’t loose -… I can’t… I just _can’t_!”

~*~

He can't remember not being here.

He can't remember anywhere other than here.

He can't remember anything other than this pain.

Can't remember anything other than this degradation.

Can't remember why he should bother.

Can't remember why he should care.

Can't remember why he should fight.

Except that he _should_.

~*~

“Anything. I’ll do _anything_ to help him. Just, _please_ …. _help him_.”

~*~

The devil has a hand on the back of his neck, not squeezing, just pushing, so that the grit and gravel from the factory floor is ground into his eyes, his nose, the corner of his mouth.

Every forward motion scrapes a jagged rock across the delicate skin under his eye, spilling his blood and adding lubricant to the floor. Every backward motion scrapes his knees a little more raw, digs a little more gravel into the wounds.

Every little discomfort isn’t felt, the solid thrumming ache up his spine the biggest one of all. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t know what the word means anymore.

Every time Lucifer comes back in, still naked, still hard, he asks Sam a question. Sam doesn’t remember what questions are, doesn’t remember what an answer is.

He’s only aware of the devil’s words.

Only aware that his lips move and his mouth makes the sound, “No.”

~*~

“Yes, I don't care who helps him, _just help him_!”

~*~

The jagged rock that shredded the skin under his eye is digging fissures in his shoulder.

There’s a sound, a strange, familiar sound. A sound that he knew, once, a long time ago, when he remembered what knowing was.

“This is low, even for you, Morningstar.”

And suddenly he’s empty. He’s struggling to comprehend that strangely familiar voice. The voice that screams ‘ _familiarenemycomfortsaftyinsanitygreif_ ’.

He doesn’t recognize the words, only that someone is making the sound, so he replies with the only sound he will give, “No.”

“Oh, Sam,” and he doesn’t yet understand pity again, but he understands the grief. And the guilt. Those are two he doesn’t think he could ever forget.

He replies with the only sound he remembers, “no.”

And suddenly the floor isn’t cold and hard with gravel bits, it’s soft and plush.

He’s alone again.

“No.”


	8. Chapter 8

  
“I can wake him up, but I’m not so sure you want me to do that just yet, Davy Crockett. Give me some time. Three days, that’s all I’ll need.”

~*~

He’s warm. He doesn’t remember warm, just that he’s now not cold. He thinks it’s nice.

There’s someone with him, talking softly, lightly. Making the sounds he doesn’t know how to translate.

But he responds with the one sound he does remember, even if he doesn’t remember what it means. He does remember it’s a way to communicate, and he desperately wants to do that again. Even if he doesn’t remember half the thoughts that accompany it.

“No.”

~*~

“It’d go a hell of a lot faster if you two weren’t bugging me every five seconds! Geeze! Why don’t you make yourselves useful and find me a vending machine! Snickers! King size! Oh! Or those little chocolate covered raisins.”

~*~

He’s getting better, he can feel it. Even if he still doesn’t know what the sounds mean, he recognizes things now. Spoon, bowl, room, table. Blanket. He likes that one. It’s soft and doesn’t dig in, doesn’t-

“No.”

He gets a sigh, and another spoonful of warm, good, liquid, no bitter taste, not too much, not too _full_. He likes this taste. This taste is-

“Good.”

He recognizes shock. And silence is another he’s always known.

“…Yeah, Sammy. ‘Good’.”

~*~

“No, I’m not doing this just to piss you off, Winchester; you’re seriously getting in the way. You wanna help, go get more Snickers!”

~*~

He knows more now, knows that this isn’t where he should be. There’s something missing, that much he knows for sure.

(He thinks there might be more than one thing missing but this ‘more than one’ thing confuses him, so he thinks it’s safer to stick with just the one.)

The other person isn’t always there, but they come back often enough, and he’s even taken to looking forward to it. This person doesn’t bring pain, but there’s something in him telling him he needs to be careful anyways, needs to be wary.

He knows that the warm, good liquid is ‘soup’ and that the thing the blankets rest on is a bed. He remembers now that the other in the room is ‘person’ and that he is ‘Sam’, although he doesn’t remember what a ‘Sam’ is. He hopes it’s ‘good’. He likes that word.

He uses his words as much as he can. He doesn’t remember all of them, (but he thinks maybe it’s a good sign that he _knows_ he doesn’t know them) but the ones he uses get smiles. When he uses ‘good’ he gets real smiles, without guilt or sadness.

He uses that one a lot.

~*~

“Seriously, Winchester, _trying my patience_. I said I’d do it, so let me work! Oh, and we’re out of chocolate milk.”

~*~

He has more soup. He learned that word a while ago. He knows that the other person is good, and he’s taken to telling them so.

He smiles when they show up, because that gets him a smile in return and says, “Good.” Because that’s what it is.

He thinks maybe that this soup is the good-… hmm… how does he say that? Words. He should use his words. But he doesn’t know that word yet. And without much prompting, a phrase (is that a word?) pops into his head. He speaks it without thinking over the sounds, just repeating them as they pass through his head.

“Best damn soup this side of the Masson-Dixie line.”

The spoon clatters as it’s (dropped?) falls. The other person, Good, is shocked. He still remembers that one.

“Sam?”

~*~

“Yes, he’s getting better. But really, I think you need to get some sleep, kiddo. Let Castiel take over beating down the door. It wont kill you to sleep. And Sam might appreciate if you took a shower. I know I would.”

~*~

“Want some more soup, Sam?”

He likes soup. He’s learned that this soup is ‘tomato’. His favorite is ‘clam chowder’ but they haven’t had that for a while.

“Chicken noodle?”

He likes that one, too. There’s stars in it. And asking for things always gets him that smile.

He thinks sometimes that that smile is wrong, that there’s something missing from it. He frowns, and reaches out with his fingertips towards the smile. He thinks it might be the first time he’s ever done that.

He uses his fingers to fix the smile the way he sees it in his mind and the other person lets him. Some part of him says that that is ‘odd’ and ‘weird’ although he doesn’t know what those sounds mean yet.

When he’s done the words ‘smirk’ and ‘Trickster’ pop into his head seconds before he says, “Gabriel.”

And then, “Bastard.”

He doesn’t know what a laugh is yet, but the sound makes him smile.

~*~

“I made him chicken noodle soup and he called me a bastard. No, I’m not kidding, and you tell Castiel that if he’s going to eat the last candy bar, he can damn well go and get more.”

~*~

The other person, Gabriel, is here almost constantly now. Sam thinks he remembers that he’s not supposed to be here.

Sometimes he thinks words like ‘Impala’ and ‘rock salt’. Other times he thinks words like ‘smite’ and ‘ACDC’ and ‘hooker’.

Every once in a while he’ll think ‘holy tax accountant’.

He remembers little things, like his name- _Sam Winchester_ \- and words like ‘Stanford’- _Ivy League_ \- but the most important ones are the words Gabriel gives him.

Words like ‘Dean’.

Words like ‘hope’.

Words like ‘Castiel’.

Words like ‘safe’.

Gabriel has started bringing back thing from his increasingly rare trips. Things he says are ‘good’ and Sam agrees.

‘Chocolate’ is good, but the ‘gummy worms’ are his favorite. He adds it together with ‘clam chowder’ and they are his ‘favorites’.

~*~

“Did he always like gummy worms this much? Oh, that’s good. No, no reason, except you should get Castiel to add it to the list.”

~*~

Sam can remember a whole lot now. He remembers why the words ‘smirk’ and ‘Trickster’ appeared with ‘Gabriel’. He also remembers why the word ‘bastard’ came right after and that the laugh was both in relief and in jest.

He remembers Dean, his brother, and Castiel, his brother’s angel (he also thinks he might remember some unintentional eyefuckage between the two of them, but he isn’t sure and he _is_ sure he’s not telling Gabriel).

He remembers Hunting. Wendigo, rugaru, dijin, vampire, werewolf, bruja, demon.

He also remembers the correct way to load a gun, how to pack rock salt in shotgun shells, the correct litany to bless holy water, how to disable a security alarm and any other myriad skills he knows are morally dubious and definitely illegal.

He knows that there’s something big happening right now, but he can’t remember _what_.

And it’s frustrating that Gabriel wont tell him.

~*~

“Urgh, I need a beer. No, wait, Bailey’s and hot chocolate. With lots of whip. Why are you looking at me like that? Go, shoo, get me booze! Why? Because your brother is a stubborn pain in the ass, that’s why!”

~*~

“Hey Sam.”

“Gabriel.”

Sam doesn’t want to talk to him. And dammit, he’s _not_ pouting.

Except, maybe he is.

He wants to see Dean and Castiel, but Gabriel says it isn’t safe. And, although all his instincts are screaming at him that Gabriel isn’t safe himself, Gabriel isn’t hurting him and-

Sam stops. Why would Gabriel be hurting him?

“Sam. Sam, stop.”

Wait, was someone hurting him?

“Sam, really, kiddo, you don't want to do that.”

He remembers despair. Lots of it, and a helpless/hopelessness he hates more than he hates himself.

“Sam, seriously! _Stop_!”

He remembers.

Sam wants to die.

~*~

“ _I do not have fucking **time** right now, Winchester_!”

~*~

“You- you weren’t going to tell me?!”

Sam can feel himself panicking, knows he should stay calm, but he cant and the images flashing through his mind-

 _-Lucifer,pain,Lucifer,Dean,knife,blood,pain,Dean,Lucifer,rape,pain,LuciferLuciferLucifer_ -

-make it hard to keep his panic down.

“Sam- Sam, hold on- just calm down,” Gabriel’s trying to keep him calm, but Sam can't take anymore _control_.

“NO! You- you weren’t going to tell me,” Sam’s sure of it now, “What, was this all a sick game?!”

And he can see that the words hurt Gabriel/Good/other person. He can see the flinch and suddenly there’s fire in his veins.

“Why the hell am I here, Gabriel!? Wasn’t it enough your brother got his kicks, you had to come in and see if you can play, too?!” and, oh yes, Sam knows how to be cruel.

Something about the way Gabriel’s head snaps up, the fire in his eyes makes a small part of Sam want to back down. The other parts take it as a sign to charge full speed a head.

“NO! Your brother asked my brother for HELP, you thick skulled Neanderthal!”

“And you wanted to see just-”

‘ _This is low, even for you, Morningstar_.’

And the fire leaves Sam’s veins under the on slot of ice water suddenly gushing though them.

“Y-you..? You saved me?”

Gabriel, fighting down his power seconds before, sags in a mixture of relief and grief, “Yes, Sam. I saved you.”

~*~

“No, everything’s fine. Well, I guess if you want to be cynical-. No, yeah let’s all gang up on Gabriel. ‘Cause, _clearly_ he’s got nothing better to do.”

~*~

Sam remember how it all started now. He remembers the who and the why. He remembers _Lucifer_.

And he wants to laugh. Because if there’s one sure-fire way to guarantee he’ll never say yes, the devil’s found it.


End file.
